


Red Strings

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Reincarnation, canon-verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 00:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6493759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eren is a struggling artist on the verge of bankruptcy, unable to sell a single canvas. He paints fifteen meter tall humanoid monsters with gaping mouths and bulging eyes. Nobody wants to buy a painting of nightmares that haunt their grandfather’s minds.</p><p>Levi is a thriving author, writer of the Once There Were Titans trilogy, based on the millennium-year-old tale of the real titans, back when there were walls caging humans and they were both prey and hunter.</p><p>When Eren commissions a cover for Levi, the two meet together to discuss the future of the Titans series, only to re-unite with each other, to be ashamed that each has forgotten the other’s face.</p><p>They want to find the others; Mikasa, Armin, Jean, Hanji, Erwin… they were here too. They were here too, somewhere among the rebuilt earth and people more dead than when humanity’s survival was at risk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hellu! My first SnK fanfic, so expect it to be kinda bad? cx 
> 
> It's a reincarnation, canon-verse thing, which will be hard to pull off because AUs are fun to do, but I wanted to challenge myself so why not?
> 
> Forgive any grammar mistakes/typos, I don't have an editor yet XD 
> 
> So, yeah. Of course it's Ereri, but, hey, it's cute, so...
> 
> Yeah. Hope you enjoy! (This chapter's short because it's the prologue, but other chapters will be longer. I promise.)

That was it. The realisation wasn't a fast, hard hit. It took a few minutes for everything to set it, for the _oh, we’re safe_ to settle, because humanity had done it.

The last titan, five meter in class, abnormal. Killed at the hands of Eren Jaeger and Levi Ackerman, the notorious titan shifter paired with Humanity’s Strongest to create a duo capable of saving earth.

With the thud of the titan’s body falling, falling, falling, the shortness of breathe ceased as everyone erupted to cheers. In an instance, all their doubt, all their worries just melted, dropped to the floor.

_“You can’t save humanity!”_

_“It’s a waste to join the Survey Corps!”_

_“What are you doing, wasting away your life with those ruffians?”_

Everyone, _everyone_ , who had thrown insults at them, those who belittled them, those who had supported them and cherished them, all of those doubters and supporters were roaring in celebration. There were screams of joy, tears of relief, people jumping on top of each other, tackling each other in tight hugs; a few in the even crowd fainted.

Eren was crying, tears caught in the corners of his eyes, crystal tracks lining his cheeks. He was screaming something, shouting something, but the noise was too loud, too much.  Levi didn't need words, though. He knew. They both knew. With shaking arms, they wrapped each other in an trembling embrace, both smelling like the other, suffocated in each other’s touch.

“We did it!” Eren yelled, and his voice, that pitch—so shaky, so unsure, like it was all a dream—brought more tears to Levi’s eyes, brought them falling down.

“I’m proud of you, brat!” Levi yelled back, and his voice was far from that smooth, composed tone, it was _breaking_ —and soon he was pulling Eren to the ground, wanting to remember this moment for the rest of his life, and more.

_“We did it! We did it! We did it!”_

Hanji’s cries echoed loudly in the air, Mikasa shrieking, holding Annie close to her, the highness of Armin’s call was imprinted in the crowd’s ears. This is what celebration sounds like; the vibration in all their ears, the hum they felt rushing through their tired, worn bodies. It was like they were being reborn, being reborn with the ability to feel alive.

“Hey, Levi?” Eren called, and his eyes were so bright, so bright with the future, so bright with _life_. Levi couldn't be mean anymore, he couldn't hold it in anymore, he couldn't lie about these emotions wrenching his heart inside out. Laughing, he grabbed Eren’s collar and pulled him close, pressing his lips against his partner’s, holding him tight.

They held the embrace, they drowned in it, the feeling that both of them could be together now, that there wasn't anything left to hurt them. They didn't have to hide it anymore, there were no more tears left to spill, their eyes were empty and hollow. All the pain was lifted, their shoulders felt airy, invincibility flooded their veins, lured them in and beckoning them with a promise of smiles and happiness—happiness that was stolen from them long ago.

“I love you,” they both called, and the pitch of their laughter as they collided again was unforgettable.

I _love you, I love you, I love you,_  an echo in the crowd, the thoughts in their minds, and even though love felt like enough, it really wasn’t, because somewhere in the distance there would be another obstacle, a bigger one than any titan attack they had ever faced.

As much as they liked to think it, humans aren't immortal.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eren meets Levi and instantly notices that there's something about Levi that he recognises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter delivered to you while I'm in school cx
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy!

_There is this one painting in the gallery that stands out._

_It is a painting of a man, short and stone-faced with thin lips and a neatly trimmed undercut. He was wearing some sort of cloak, some sort of protective gear. His eyes were cold, grey storms._

_He’s on a ledge, a steep one, bloodied and spilled with cracks, with his fist clenched and placed right atop his chest—exactly where his heart would've been, exactly where it would've beaten and heaved._

_It was titled “Corporal”, and even if it was an exquisite piece of work, even if the talent of the painter was undeniable, there were no bidders, no-one paying enough interest._

_Perhaps because it was a picture of the Titans—huge, man-eating monsters that roamed earth one thousand years ago; the ones painted in horror picture-books used to frighten little kids._

_Only one woman was looking at the painting, tall with chin-length black hair. She looked to be in her early twenties, no older than twenty-six. The other man that stood by her was the artist, a tired looking man with a half-shaven beard._

_“Who’s the man in the picture?” the woman asks. “A friend?"_

_The artist shrugs. “Someone I used to know,” he tells her. “Someone I’d like to find again.”_

 

* * *

 

 

He had a scheduled meeting with Rivaille Ackerman, the novelist and author of the  _Titans_ trilogy. It would be risky, no,  _stupid_ , to commission artwork for one of the best-selling authors in the world when he himself could barely afford the trip there.

Eren Jaeger was known by those around him as “absent-minded” with “an imagination too wild for his own good”, with all the canvases he ever painted being of the Titans, legendary, man-eating monsters that can grow more than fifteen meters tall. 

It’s good art, it was undeniably good art, but no-one wanted to buy paintings of monsters. It was, in the very least, disturbing to spend so much time  _painting_ them, but advertising them and going as far to attempt selling them? It was like a death-wish for your career, for your life, really. How many people liked making friends with someone obsessed over the past (a bad past, at that)? 

Eren had found someone, though, against all odds, willing enough to look at his work—willing enough to  _pay_ for it. For someone on the edge of bankruptcy, the saying “beggars can’t be picky” defines your existence. He would've accepted any work, at any price. As long as he was payed, as long as it would keep him off the streets for a day longer.

He had chosen the cheapest route; one with the roads that never crowded, the paths that never really seemed to open up, and still he was straining on his budget. The trip from Shiganshina to Trost was costly, but Eren was leaning all his hope into it leading into a success.

A long, shallow sigh escapes his lips, and Eren reaches out to massage his temple, already throbbing with the smell of grease and burning trash. The man beside him—burly, smoking an already stumped cigarette—looked over at him, eyeing up his outfit and the state of his hair, even though his wasn't much better.

Throughout the summer Eren’s hair had grown long, and, not having enough money leftover for a trip to the hairdresser’s, he cut it himself using a pair of scissors he found among a pile of old canvases. It’s not neat, he knows, but surely it doesn't look that bad? Surely it was acceptable, even with the ever-increasing standards for society today?

“You from around here?” the man asks, and his accent is rough and heavy, but Eren can’t pick it up, can’t recognise it. Maybe someone from Rose?

“No, I live quite far away,” Eren replies, wincing at the sound of his cracked voice, the shaky drop of pitch. He didn't have any especially close friends, no-one willing to talk to him, and his conversation skills had gotten rusty, to say the least. Being naturally anti-social, it seemed the world was cursing him for some sort of sin he either committed beforehand or was destined to commit in the future

The conversation stops and the man leans back on his chair and nods vaguely, making an attempt to look intelligent, to look worth the time. Eren fidgets, clasping his hands and re-crossing his ankles, and for the first time in what seems eternity he notices the thinness of his wrists, the way the veins appear vivid blue against the paleness of his skin.

He frowns, bites his dry lip as he tilts his head up, looking for some part of the minibus he was in worthy of his focus. They trailed over the empty seats, the worn cushions, the rust tinting at the edges of the cracked windows.

  
_This is the life of someone poor_ , Eren thought, and in that moment he couldn't imagine a life any different. He’d tried to, before, but all he could picture in his mind was him selling a canvas. It was the prayer on the tip of his tongue everyday, that someone would buy his work.

He even tried before to paint something nice, something like a park, but for some reason his fingers wouldn't work, wouldn't paint it in the right way, and no-one took a second glance at his new “style”. Said he was better off painting monsters.

There are some people, Eren guesses, that are just born lucky, born to be recognised. Like the author he’s about to meet.

When the minibus screeches to a halt, Eren shakily walks off, a backpack slung over his back, containing only the commissioned art he spent weeks perfecting. 

The paper he was holding—the only thing clean among his possessions—was already crumpling.  _Trost café, 4pm,_ it read in script so neat it almost had to be printed.

Eren didn't own a wristwatch, or even a clock, for that matter, so he only assumed he was late. Judging by the position of the sun, he decides to pick up the pace, not wanting to attract the attention of the pedestrians surrounding him; Eren was never used to cities as crowded as Trost. 

_“Is he homeless?”_

_“What happened to him?”_

_“Does he live near here? Remind me to stay clear of him if he does.”_

_“Such a pity—he has a nice face when you look hard enough.”  
_

_“Should we give him money?”_

The same comments followed him everywhere, even when he was at home the windows betrayed him. His neighbours—old, retired couples, mostly, at the edge of their pension—stayed clear if him, stayed clear of the “monster-obsessed hobo next door”.

Eren wasn't sure he was entirely fine with the comments, but in his current state there were much bigger problems he ought to be focusing on—like the critique he would receive from Levi Ackerman, how much money he’d need to spend fixing his art. How much past his budget had he already gone? Surely more than usual, more than ever.

When he arrived, it was well past four, bordering five o’clock, even. Eren didn't expect Rivaille to still be there, waiting, with all those people crowded around him, wanting to hear his voice and feel his skin. He was a celebrity, it wasn't natural for him to wait for a broke artist offering only a measly cover.

Rivaille was there, though, waiting in a curtained part of the café, dressed in clothes even a rich person could barely afford. Eren felt increasingly self-conscious of his attire, of his entire look, but Levi’s face, that familiarity…

Where had Eren seen that face before? The sharpness of Rivaille’s jaw, the paleness of his skin, it was all familiar to him. How his neck seemed to dip perfectly into his collarbones, how Rivaille’s eyes were an impossible shade of grey—

“Rivaille Ackerman?” Eren croaks, trying to push the thoughts out of his head; the man in front of him was a complete stranger, he kept trying to tell himself. Well, not  _exactly_ a stranger. They had introduced themselves through  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“Levi,” he corrects primly. “Levi is fine. Take a seat, Eren.”

He does as he’s told, sitting down in the most polite manner he was able to manage. Levi’s face is cold, a mannequin’s. Eren prefers it to the dirty stares he gets on a daily basis—he’d prefer anything over those scoffs.

Eren fumbles for his work, a thick, B5 canvas that cost him more than it should’ve—more than most of his work pieces did (he couldn't resist the urge to go buy new paint to match the exact complexion he needed.) Trembling, he hands it to Levi, a lost look in his eyes. There’s a a gulp, the scratch of chair legs scraping across the marble floor.

Levi takes a moment to absorb it, and as soon as he does, he freezes, goes completely still. The air goes silent, grows thick with anticipation—anticipation for something Eren could be unable to give.

The painting itself is simple in design. There’s a cliff at the bottom, stained with blood and the clothes of dead soldiers, and on the cliff is a man. Short, pale, and if you looked hard enough there were glimmers of tears caught in his cheeks. In front of him you could just make out the outline of a monster—a titan—on the rampage, with a young girl clamped in one fist, the other high in the stormy air.

“It’s very good,” Levi breathes. “No-one… no-one really drew it like this. It was more focused on the titans, not on the humans. You did a great job.”

“Thank you, Ri—Levi,” Eren murmurs, and inside he can feel his heart kicking his ribs. His hands go up to touch the spot his heart should’ve been, feeling for any sign of a bruise. The man who had written the most successful book of the year had  _praised_ him.

“Why did you decide to draw it like this? With the man on a cliff, and not fighting a titan?” Levi asked, and his slender body leaned closer, albeit by an inch. It was close enough for Eren to smell his shampoo, the detergent he used on his tight sweater. “Most artists would have wanted drama in their covers.”

“I just felt like this would connect to readers more, to see the pain, you know?” Eren burbled. “And it just felt like I  _remembered_ this scene somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Levi nods, seemingly more to his actions, slipping over the paper, his movements clean and crisp; practiced. “I’d like you to do more. How much are you looking for, budget-wise, that is?"

Eren paused, thinking hard. If anything, he wanted enough to pay out his apartment rent, but someone resembling a beggar asking for set amounts of money… “Anything, any amount.”

“Are you sure?” Levi asks again, and something in his tone is doubtful, bordering rude, but because it’s a professional meeting the bitterness is cut down.

“Ri—Levi, it’s fine,” Eren assures, and he’s glad he knows how to lie. Levi looks like he’s going to argue, going to force a price on him, but instead decides to carry on, to move on from the discussion of price.

“I’m looking for just one more cover, similar to this one. Except maybe change the titan’s appearance? In my mind the hair would be shaggier, and maybe the titan’s physique could be more flabby?” Levi says, and Eren drowns trying to catch up.

“What, you want the titan to be fat?” Eren jokes, and he could swear he saw the tiniest twitch in the corners of Levi’s lips. He has this habit, sometimes, when the words he said were exactly right for the moment. He didn't know  _how_ he managed to do it, but sometimes even awkward people know precisely what to say. 

“Basically, yeah,” Levi responded, and Eren could tell he was pleasantly amused with the sudden sass he brought on. “But seriously, we can't have fit titans.”

“Titan discrimination nowadays,” Eren laughs, and it’s the first time in a long time he’s been able to laugh. 

“We always treat titans like our own, don't we?” Levi lets himself have a quiet chuckle. Eren has already grown to love that sound.

There’s a warm feeling under his skin, writhing and screaming inside of him. It’s a nice feeling, the feeling you get when you’re praised for something you’re genuinely proud of. There was something else, though, lingering in the corners of his scattered mind.

He was thinking of the man on the cliff, how that face seemed so familiar to him. The name was bubbling on the tip of his tongue, how he had painted that face before, one day at a gallery—

“So, all jokes aside, when will you have it done by?” Levi asked promptly. “I don't want to rush you, I don't want sloppy work, but I do have a time limit?”

“It’ll take a few weeks, at most,” Eren said vaguely, doing some sort of gesture with his hands, stripped of the joking tone he had once held. “But it won’t fill up your time limit, I promise.” His words meant nothing, though, when all his mind could think of was this eery feeling that he  _knew_ things about Levi. 

“Good, I thought you'd be more prissy about it. Why don't we talk about this over at my studio—”

Eren couldn't resist the urge anymore, the relentless gnawing in his mind. He’d always been bad at self-restriction. “Do you— Do you have a thing for neatness?” he blurts out, and the minute he manages to form relevant thoughts he automatically regrets whatever slur of words he had just said. The blush was already settling on his cheeks. 

Levi looked over at him, the puzzled look on his face melting into a mix between calm and realisation. “Do I know you from somewhere?” he asked, the tone in his voice betrayed no stray emotions, no shakiness. “It feels like I know your face.”

“I don’t know,” Eren muttered. “I’m sorry if it sounded weird, I just, like, felt like I had to get it out of my mind. Sorry if it ruined your impression of me, too. Dammit, I was hoping we could be friends or something.”  
  
“You don't have to apologise so often, you know? And just because you said something quite—no, scratch that—just because you said something weird doesn't mean we I’ll reject you as a friend,” Levi assured. “Those who don't regularly interact with other humans often get awkward,” he added playfully, and just like that they switched over, switched back to the usual conversation. Eren wondered how Levi could  _do_ that, set the mood of the conversation with a few lilted words.

“So, being serious, do you want to go to my studio or somewhere more… private?” Levi asked again, and this time when he leaned over, he leaned over more, resting his elbows on the table, the sleeves of his sweater rolled up meticulously neat.

“Anywhere,” Eren decided to say. “I’m fine with anything.”

Levi scoffed lightly, trying to cover it up with a well-timed cough. “Well, if you’re that willing, why not visit my house? It’s not far.”

“Uh, if you think that’s most appropriate,” Eren stutters. “I don't mind going over to your studio, honestly, I wouldn't want to trouble you.” What he really meant, though, was that if they went somewhere public it would be easier for him, easier to not think about Levi.

Levi chuckles, a sound that’s low and smooth, too smooth. His voice is closer to a cat’s purr than a sound humans are capable of making. “Let me tell you this, Eren, you  _do not_ want to be in my studio right now. My editor is turning my studio into hell right now, trust me.”

“If you believe it’s easier to—” Eren begins, but a swift word from Levi cuts him off.

“You don't need to be so formal with me, you know?” Levi tells him, and the playful tone in his voice is gone immediately. The seriousness in his voice was unmistakable, and it half-scared Eren how he recognised that change, that sudden drop. “Learn to loosen up once in a while, kid.”

“I’m not really good at communicating,” Eren manages, and he’s shocked how  _comforting_ being called “kid” felt. He liked it, in a way. Or at least he liked how it sounded in Levi’s voice. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a conversation this long with anyone, actually.”

Levi chuckled once more, motioning for Eren to return the painting back to his bag. His fingers were long and seemingly fragile, they looked so impossibly pale Eren wondered if they were fully translucent, or if Levi had gotten enough sleep. He did as Levi wanted him to, quickly slipping the cover back into the bag.

“You’re not so bad, you know? I was expecting some kind of jerk all full of himself but you're pretty okay,” Levi told him.

“I was expecting someone more arrogant, too,” Eren returned. “You’re actually pretty nice—mild sarcasm set aside.”

Levi scoffed slightly. “Ha. Mild sarcasm? Wait till you know me for a day.” At that, Eren feigned a shudder, standing up as steadily as he could have managed.

“Can’t wait to know you better,” he breathed, and a faint blush tainted his ears when he realised those words weren't exactly all false.

“You ready, then, kid?” Levi asked, and in one, fluid motion he got up, his tight jeans straining. Eren’s breathing hitches at the sound of his name in Levi’s voice.  _Eren_. The way Levi said it, so fluently, so fluidly, it convinced him he did in fact know this stranger; Eren had gotten used to distrusting his memory. He was sure of it.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Eren tries on, remembering he’s heard that phrase a couple of times around his neighbourhood. It felt foreign on his tongue, a phrase he didn't bother using much because, frankly, Eren was always more-or-less prepared for the inevitable disappointed he would soon have to come to terms with.

“I parked right outside. I hope you’re not motion sick, by the way, I just had the thing cleaned,” Levi told him, and behind the joke there was a threat. Eren’s lips twitched.

 _No promises_ , he thought, slightly embarrassed about this being one of his first car rides, ever. It felt more comfortable, though, to be in the same car—there was basically  _no_ personal space in cars—with someone as good-looking and as politely sarcastic as Rivaille Ackerman. 

“I’ll try,” Eren says instead. “Levi,” he adds, because, respectively speaking, adding “Levi” to the end of each sentence he said made it feel less scary, and the fact he was entitled to address Rivaille as  _Levi_ made him feel, to say the least, warm.

“Good. Looks like you’re used to my name now,” Levi chuckles once more, then begins to walk out of the door. He lingers at the doorframe, waiting for Eren to catch up. Eren notes how smooth Levi’s pace is, how quick his steps are. 

“You have a nice name,” Eren mutters under his breath, and his hopes to God Levi can't hear it. When he continues to the pavements ahead, Eren takes it as a signal for him to follow.

If the stranger he somehow happens to know is Levi, Eren guesses it’s not so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that the human brain cannot produce/make up faces? So whenever you draw/dream and see a face you "don't know" you actually do know them, you just don't remember it.


End file.
